


The Last Frontier

by Invader_Sam



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alaska, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-13 21:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Invader_Sam/pseuds/Invader_Sam
Summary: After driving off into the night, having escaped the Neo-Nazi complex, Jesse Pinkman finds his way to Bear Creek, Alaska. With a new name, and hopes for a new life, he tries to reclaim his humanity in this tiny mountain town.~~~~~~~~Rated for language and mentions of violence/torture and some later adult situations.





	The Last Frontier

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally way back in 2014 on ff.net, and retooled after watching El Camino. Still takes place directly after the series, however - as much as I enjoyed El Camino, I'll consider this an AU.

“Maggie, can you meet the truck outside? We’ve got new kegs coming in.”

A head of short red curls bobbed from across the bar. “You got it.”

From the doorway of his office Wyatt Jackson watched his youngest bartender hoist herself up over the well-worn wooden bar top and cringed. “The door, Maggie! That poor bar’s been through enough.”

“Oh relax, Wy,” she said, planting her work boots on the floor, “As if I could actually do any damage.” She gestured at her petite frame and then trotted to the front door, weaving between the tables with practiced skill and speed.

Wyatt shook his head, then crossed to the bar to inspect for dings or scuff marks.

In the entryway, Maggie Sawyer grabbed her jean jacket from its hook and slipped it on as she pushed the door open with her hip. She squinted as the morning sun hit her face and fumbled to get her aviators from her front jacket pocket. Her vision restored, she surveyed the scene. As usual, the beer distribution truck was idling on the street, its wide girth blocking traffic. She jogged down the building steps and hopped up to lean into the cab. “Hey there, think you can do me a favor?”

The driver, a young man she could tell had come in from Anchorage (the Starbucks cup in his console was a dead giveaway), nodded. “Yes ma’am, sure ma’am.”

“Ok, I need you to keep moving, hang a right at the fish market, then another right at 3rd Street. That’ll bring you around to our loading area, and we can let these nice people get on with their day.” She smiled brightly as a pick-up truck behind them let its horn blare.

The driver ducked his head sheepishly. “Yes ma’am, right ma’am.”

“Thanks!” She hopped back onto the bar steps and waved him on. Then she kept on waving, playing traffic cop and exchanging greetings with the other drivers as they went past. “Hey Earl, easy with the horn, ok? You’re scaring the city boy. Mornin’ Doug, Anna! Duke, we’re tapping a new keg today – come see us tonight, got it? Need your expert opin–” She stopped short as the line of familiar SUVs and ATLs was followed by an unusual sight – the bus from Anchorage, still gleaming white under a thin layer of dust.

She squinted, trying to peer within the tinted glass for possible passengers. Had to be somebody on there, the bus didn’t make the trip every day. It rolled on past her towards its designated stop, the Inn/Visitor’s Center down the road. She put a hand above her eyes, watching intently as the door swung open. Only one person emerged, any and all defining characteristics hidden under a black hooded sweatshirt. They were dragging a suitcase in one hand and had a duffel bag swung over the other shoulder. _‘Whoever __it__ is, guess __they're__ staying a while.’_

Then, remembering the beer truck that was surely waiting for her, she turned and headed back into the bar.

* * *

Jesse blinked over and over as his still sleep-crusted eyes tried in vain to adjust to the sunlight. He felt eyes on him and twisted around. The bus-driver, his sole companion for the last day and a half was watching him. He raised one hand in a half-hearted wave. “Uh…thanks.” The bus-driver nodded and shut the bus door, letting Jesse catch a glimpse of himself before the vehicle pulled away. _‘Pinkman, you look like shit…’_

He hadn’t shaved or cut his hair since his escape. That would be high on a list of things to do. The mountain-man look didn’t suit him at all, though it did help hide his scars. Instinctively one hand went to his chin, feeling the short lines of raised scar-tissue through his thick beard. He shuddered, just for a moment, then forced his hand away.

Keep pushing.

Keep blocking.

Keep moving.

That was the mantra. That was what had got him this far.

Gotten him to Bear Creek, Alaska. Population 554, according to the sign they'd passed on the way in. _‘555 now.’_ He shifted the duffel bag on his shoulder, joints stiff from the long ride.

He eyed the building in front of him. ‘The Creekside Inn’ read the wooden sign hanging above its door, and below that, ‘Vacancy.’ The white and green paint was peeling, but in a way that was appealing rather than looking dilapidated. He half-wondered if they had done it on purpose, ‘antiqued’ it or some shit. He took a step forward, then another, reminding himself that was all it took.

Just one at a time.

Keep moving.

He pulled the door open and was immediately hit by the unmistakable scent of baked goods. He followed his nose to the front desk and found a basket of muffins, still steaming, seemingly fresh from the oven. He swallowed thickly, frozen in place, hovering over them.

“Go ahead, hon,” a female voice said, and he whipped his head up, startled by the woman standing behind the desk, shocked he hadn’t noticed her right away. She was older than he, but he couldn’t tell by how much, with teased blonde hair that was straight out of the 80s. “Take one. Guarantee they’re as good as they smell.”

He hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of how caked in filth his fingernails were. His stomach let out a loud growl and he flushed under his beard.

The woman’s mouth (painted a bubblegum pink) curled and she plucked a muffin from the basket. “Take it, hon. Though you look like you could use something a little more substantial.”

With the free invitation, he practically inhaled it, hunger overriding his self-consciousness, only reemerging to stop himself from licking the wrapper, which he instead crumpled and shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and mumbled, “Thanks…”

“Anytime, hon,” she said, reaching out in a gesture that was nothing but friendly yet he jerked away, as if her fingertips were flames. Her smile faded, just a touch, and she pulled out the guest book from a shelf on the wall. “Can we get you a room for the night?”

He rummaged in his duffel bag and placed a handful of cash on the desk. “More than one night, I think.”

The woman picked up the money, eyebrows rising dramatically. “Well…” she said, bouncing the bills in her hand, as if weighing them, and him, as she pursed her lips. “Looks like you’ll be staying with us for quite some time.” She tucked the cash in a drawer beneath the desk and plucked a key from the wall behind her. “Welcome to Bear Creek, hon. I’m Wendy. Wendy Miller.” She opened the guest book and offered him a pen. “And you are?”

_ ‘__S__hit.’ _What did his new ID say? It’d been weeks since he’d looked at it. “J…Josh,” he stammered. With a shaking hand, he picked up the pen and scrawled his new name on the first empty line in the book. “Josh Carpenter.”

“Nice to meet’cha,” she said. “You’re room number 7 – just up the stairs and to the left.”

He took the room key, picked up his suitcase. “Thanks…Wendy.”

“See ya ‘round, hon.”

The room was ridiculously easy to find. There looked to only be fifteen rooms in the whole place, and from the looks of the other keys on the pegboard, maybe one or two other occupants. He opened the door to his room, locked it behind him. He let his luggage fall roughly to the floor, and let himself land on the bed with even less finesse. He hadn’t had a mattress beneath him in months, reduced to sleeping on buses, in box cars of freight trains, any and everything went so long as it was moving north.

He almost let himself drift off again when the thought of his grimy fingernails crept into his mind again and he forced himself up and to the bathroom, shedding layers as he went.

He was naked by the time his feet touched the tile floor and he shut the door behind him, leaning against it, feeling the cold, smooth wood against his back and shutting his eyes. If the distorted reflection on the glass bus door was jarring, the real thing would surely be worse. He took a deep breath, then another.

Keep breathing, another mantra.

He decided it might be less awful to be clean first.

Averting his eyes from the mirror, he started the shower running. He stuck a hand under the stream and jerked it back, cursing. It took a solid two minutes to warm up, and as soon as it had reached room temperature he stepped into the tub. Even lukewarm it felt amazing. He stood with his head under the shower head, letting the water pour over him. He then pushed his hair back so it was slicked against his head and turned around, searching for the soap, the water now pelting his back.

He choked back a cry, fell to his knees.

_A power washer._

_ A concrete wall._

_ Cruel laughter._

Clutching his head, he curled into himself on the floor of the tub, gasping.

How? _How? __**How?**_

He'd gotten away – over three-_thousand_ miles away – so why, _why, __**why**_?

Chest tight, whole body shaking, he fought the tears, and lost. He let his head rest against the tile and through his blurred vision spotted what had to be a homemade bar of soap tucked in the corner. With trembling fingers he reached for it, knocked it to the floor, picked it up.

He took a ragged breath, tried to focus. It was marbled, rough to the touch, and looked more than up to the task set before it. Blood still pulsing in his ears, he rubbed the bar between both hands, watched the suds form.

It was rhythmic, simple, and soothing. His breathing slowed and he stood again. He scrubbed, gently at first, and then more vigorously as he watched the dirt and grime pool at his feet and swirl away down the drain. He surprised himself when a laugh-like gurgling sound slipped in among the tears. By the time he was lathering his hair, the repressed gurgle had grown to a full-throated laugh.

He took his time, getting every crevice. He washed his hair a second time, then a third, marveling at how with each rinse and repeat it felt less greasy between his fingers. Eventually the water began creeping towards room temperature again, signaling that he probably should give it a rest. Reluctantly, he shut the water off and shoved the curtain open.

The bathroom mirror was well-fogged so he was spared his own image a moment longer. He dried himself, held the towel over his face and took a deep breath. Then another.

Keep breathing.

Keep moving.

He wiped the fog from the mirror with the towel. The face that stared back at him was his, but hollow, with deep dark circles under the eyes. The scars, at least the ones not hidden by beard stood out against his skin, which had grown pale from the months kept out of the sun. He ran a hand through his hair again. Wet, it hung past his shoulders. He tugged at his beard. It had to be at least five inches long now. _‘I look like a fuckin’ hobo…guess I kinda was…’_

He took a step back to get a fuller view. His was thinner than he’d ever been (and he’d always been skinny), and his muscles were less defined than they use to be. He looked half-starved, and he guessed he’d been that too. The scars weren't limited to his face. They circled his wrists, and though they were out of the mirror's view, he knew they criss-crossed his back as well.

He frowned at the sad sack in the mirror, feeling the anger simmering deep down under the exhaustion and pain. Another hard breath and he forced it all down. This sallow, emaciated shell might have been what they'd made him, but he was in charge again. And he knew just how to start.

Unfortunately, a quick survey of the room yielded no scissors (or sharp objects of any kind for that matter). In frustration, he lugged his suitcase up onto the bed and unzipped it, digging around for the least-dirty clothes he had. He chose a black t-shirt and black jeans, which hid dirt best, and donned his hoodie again before grabbing another small handful of cash from the duffel bag. He stowed both suitcase and duffel in the closet, slipped on his sneakers (the soles of which were dangerously thin) and headed back downstairs.

Wendy was gone from the front desk, a folded piece of stationary sitting in her place read: ‘Out to Lunch. At the Last Stop if needed.’

He was on his own to find a barber then. But finding one on this, the only big street in the whole damn town, couldn’t be that hard. He pulled his hood up over his wet hair, grabbed another muffin from the basket, and ventured back out again.

* * *

“I’m tellin’ ya, Mags, he was just about the saddest thing I ever saw come offa that bus.” Wendy gestured emphatically with a French-fry. “He looked like a kicked dog, I swear.”

Maggie put a hand over the inn-keeper’s drink so it wouldn’t get knocked asunder. “And he paid for more than a month at Creekside?”

“In cash.” Wendy nodded. “And I know Dale says to be wary of that kinda thing, but ya should’a seen him! I couldn’t say no to those sad puppy eyes.”

The bartender clucked her tongue. “That’s your problem, Wend, you’re a sucker for any pair of baby blues that waltzes through your…” She trailed off, her eyes going over her friend’s shoulder. “…door…”

“Hmm?” Wendy twisted around, smirked. “Well I’ll be damned…He cleans up even nicer than I thought.”

Maggie didn’t respond, her gaze still on the young man who’d just come through the door. It was the one who’d gotten off the bus, she recognized the hoodie. His shoulders were hunched and he was peering around the room as if memorizing all the exits.

“Hey, hon!” Wendy called out, waving at him. “Why don’cha join us?”

He flinched slightly. Maybe he’d been hoping to go unnoticed, but that was a bit impractical with most of the regulars off on a fishing job that day. The bar was practically empty. He seemed to realize this and walked slowly towards them, hands buried in his hoodie pocket.

Wendy pulled the barstool next to hers out for him. “Maggie, this is Josh. Josh, this is my good friend Maggie.”

He slid onto the stool and gave a nod. “Hey.”

“…Hi,” she managed. Wendy could be a bit dramatic, but she didn’t lie. The man now seated across from her had just about the saddest, most soulful eyes she’d ever seen. He was no longer quite the mess Maggie had described, however. His tawny hair was cropped close to his head, and his beard had received similar treatment. Her eyes roved the scars scattered across his features and as she wondered about their story, she realized she’d been staring. With what she hoped was a modicum of grace, she pulled her notepad from the pocket of her apron. “What can I get you?”

He turned towards the row of taps along the bar. “Uh…a beer, I guess? What’s good?”

Happy to talk shop, she smiled. “We actually just got the Ice Axe Ale in. Used to be brewed exclusively for a nearby town, but they’re expanding their market! It _i__s_ a 9% though, so…”

“Let’s do it.” He pulled a $50 bill from his pocket and slapped it down on the bar. “And, uh, what’ve you got to eat?”

“Ooh!” Wendy bounced in her seat. “This boy needs the Last Stop Last Meal! For sure.”

“Last Meal?” he asked. “Not sure I like the sound of that…”

“Oh you’ll love it,” the blonde woman said. “Trust me.”

He shrugged. “If you say so.”

Maggie grinned, handing him his beer, “One Last Stop Meal coming up!”

* * *

The meal that was set before Jesse was…intimidating, to say the least. He’d been told as it was being prepared that it was the meal that tourists ordered before they climbed nearby Mt. McKinley, mostly as a joke, but the name stuck and the pub had become moderately well-known for it.

He could see why. It came in five courses, each one richer than the last. First French Onion Soup with enough cheese on top to cause a coronary, then chili with cornbread (still in the cast iron skillet), then a plate of wings that came customizable (from ‘pussy’ to ‘powder keg’), a whole pound burger and fries, and when they finally brought out the triple-decker chocolate cake, he was done. He leaned back in his stool and pushed the plate away. “No way, man…no more. You ladies can have this.”

“Don’t hafta tell me twice,” Wendy said, fork at the ready. “Thanks, hon.”

“Sure.” He put both hands on his stomach and was disturbed to feel that it had distended slightly. Maybe over-doing it hadn’t been the best idea, but he’d been so damn hungry. He belched into his fist, then muttered, “S’cuse me…”

Maggie put a glass of something slightly yellowish and fizzing in front of him. He raised an eyebrow at it.

“It’s Brioskee,” she said. “You’ll thank me later.”

He glanced up at her, and then averted his eyes again. He could tell she kept staring at him, and it made his ears burn. The old man at the barber shop had done a fine job, but he was more conscious than ever of his scars and the last thing he wanted to do was answer questions. To make matters worse, he kept catching himself stealing glances at her. She was pretty in a way that seemed effortless, her bright curly hair looked natural and if she was wearing make-up, he couldn't tell.

He took a sip of the fizzing concoction. “Oh. Seltzer.” He felt stupid for not realizing.

Wendy pointed at him with a forkful of cake. “Too bad ya couldn’t finish this, hon. You’d’ve gotten your picture on the wall.” She gestured behind the bar, where, above the shelves of liquor a small, hand-painted ‘Hall of Fame’ sign hung, surrounded by Polaroids of people who all looked like he felt.

The color drained from his face and he shook his head. “You don’t want my face up there, scaring people off.”

Maggie paused, freshly-washed pint glass in one hand and dishtowel in the other. “I've seen scarier,” she said softly.

“Hmm?”

“Another round?” She nodded at his empty glass.

“Uh, no, no. Just the, uh, just the check I think.”

She set the clean glass back where it belonged, draped the towel over her shoulder and slipped her hands into her apron pockets. “Nah. 'New Guy' discount. This one's on the house.”

“What? No way.” He was already pulling a rubber-banded wad of cash from his hoodie pocket, counting out bills. “Shit, that had to be, like, a hundred bucks worth of food.”

As he extended his fistful of cash across the bar, Maggie put her hand down over top of his and he froze. She brought her other hand out to join its twin, trapping him in a cage of soft, warm fingers, and his eyes darted rapidly between it and her face, brain buzzing. His right leg had started bouncing, the urge to get up and run tempered only by the shy smile on her lips.

“I'm not saying don't tip or anything,” she said. “But yeah, we've got this one.” She released his hands, gathered up the remaining plates, and ambled off towards the kitchen.

For a moment he just sat, staring after her, leg still bouncing anxiously, $100 in twenties clenched in a vice-grip in his fist. He swore under his breath.

Beside him, Wendy cleared her throat. “You ok, hon?”

“Huh?” Right. Other people. “Oh. Yeah. No, yeah. I'm, um, I'm good, yeah.” He moved to but the money back into his pocket, paused, took one last swig from the glass of seltzer and then put two of the bills underneath. “Ok, well, uh, this was great an’ all, but I think I’m gonna go, whaddya call it? Hibernate? Yeah…” He slid off the barstool.

“Not even gonna say goodbye?” Wendy asked after him, jerking her thumb towards the kitchen doors.

“I’ll uh…I’ll see you around. Pretty small town.” With a half-hearted wave, he hurried out the door.

He practically ran back to the Inn, forcing himself to slow down so as not to draw attention. Once back in his room, he locked the door and checked the closet. Suitcase and duffel hadn't moved. He walked the perimeter of the room, checking that the windows were locked, drawing the black-out curtains. He peeked in the bathroom. The towel was still on the floor where he'd left it. Absently he picked it up, hung it over the shower curtain rod. Flinched as he caught an accidental glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He was somehow both sweating and shivering as he stripped down and climbed into bed. Habitually he ran a hand over his scars, the feel of rough skin on rough skin familiar, though not comforting.

Her hands – he hadn't felt anything so soft in over a year. Or gentle.

His breath caught in his throat.

_A thick hand patting his hair._

_ Cupping his face._

_ Quiet, innocuous words laced with menace._

_ 'Such a good boy.'_

He pressed his face to muffle the scream, eyes shut tight, as if that would stop it. Stop the memories, the voices. Fists clutching the comforter, he pulled it up over his head, nothing but a trembling polyester cocoon waiting for the adrenaline to run its course and the exhaustion to take over.

**Author's Note:**

> Back when I first wrote this, I had that first shower be a purely good thing, but than El Camino gave us those 30 seconds and I knew I wanted to include something similar - and I really wish there had been more like that, so I'm planning on working those sorts of moments in. Don't worry, he's on the path to healing, but it's going to be a bumpy road.


End file.
